Dirty Kisses_Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

by Kenya Wright

  “Let’s hope this doesn’t deal with Darryl.” I looked around. “Where’s Kennedy?”

  “As soon as she spotted the Russians, she left.”

  “Left?”

  “Left.”

  What the fuck?

  “Okay. That’s fine.” I sighed. “I’ll be back. This is probably no big deal.”

  Maxwell didn’t look convinced. “Be careful. I’ll check him out.”

  I left Maxwell and guided Kazimir to my office. With each step, his men moved from their positions in the gallery and followed us.

  Most of the regular art enthusiasts paused from their conversations and looked to see what was going on. Anybody who didn’t know much about the crime world would’ve probably thought he was some high political figure and his men were secret service.

  But a few knew what was up. They spotted Kazimir and his men and headed to the exit.

  I had no doubt that by tomorrow morning, everyone in Harlem would know the Russian mob had come to my gallery. I just hoped none of this would get me in trouble. Working for criminals meant walking a tight rope each day. The trick was doing exactly what they said without the tiniest error because one problem could mean the end of my life or those around me.

  It wasn’t the easiest job, but it kept me closer to getting the hell out of New York.

  He’d said that he was like the lion in the picture and I would be his mouse nibbling away.

  I don’t know about that. I just hope this lion doesn’t eat the mouse.

  Chapter 3

  Kazimir

  She was beautiful and very dangerous. The beauty was easy to spot on her, but the danger, it crept behind her eyes. She was scared, but not terrified. She was compliant and open to what I had to say, but not shaking in her heels.

  I’ll have to watch this one.

  I hadn’t survived and prospered in the Bratva on killing alone. Intelligence, lethal skills, and physical ability were awesome qualities to fill my résumé, but my advantage came from my natural instincts. And those instincts were telling me that Emily was more than what met my eyes. Much more dangerous than she appeared. Not many women incited this.

  She showed me to her office and I looked her up and down, admiring that lovely body. She had on a tight white skirt with a cream-colored top. Against those breasts, the top was too small to be legal. Her tiny waist exaggerated those curvy hips and ass.

  She dressed in all white, but she’s no angel. What’s her story?

  She unlocked her door. I stepped inside and gestured for my men to stay behind. Sasha remained outside with the paintings.

  The door closed behind me.

  She went to the other side of the desk and sat down. I immediately hated the distance between us, thinking I would’ve gotten to touch her hand again. When she sat down, our gazes met.

  Her eyes were big and bright as the full moon, casting a magical glow across her face. This close and without any distractions from the people in the gallery or even my men, I realized those eyes weren’t simply brown. Tiny flecks of green and gold illuminated the irises.

  For a moment, I found myself lost in those liquid depths, wondering what secrets lay hidden beneath.

  Her sexy voice sliced through the quiet. “How can I help you?”

  “If one needed millions washed, how would they do it?”

  She raised her eyebrows as if shocked that I went right into it. But I had no time for fun banter. I had money that needed to be cleaned.

  She folded her hands and placed them on the desk. “I’ve never cleaned anything over half a million.”

  “Then, congratulations.” I smiled. “You’ve been promoted.”

  She frowned but said nothing.

  “How would you clean millions?” I asked. “This is hypothetical of course.”

  I’d been ahead of the FBI for years, having my own men planted in many of the departments, but I still didn’t like talking at locations that had not been checked by my people. My wording would have to be careful, yet still deliver the required message.

  “Millions?” She blew out a long breath.

  “Be quick, Mrs. Chambers. Your brother’s life depends on it. Again, this is all hypothetical.”

  Her face shifted to worry. “My brother is involved?”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “How would I wash millions? I would find someone who was already rich or at least coming up on a big inheritance. They would be easier to control and funnel money through. That person could get the capitol from a bank to borrow massive loans, ones that wouldn’t make the government suspicious, when his bank account begins to fill. I’d have the person buy huge, expensive properties which is easy to do in New York. Everything is overpriced. Purchasing buildings are good for washing huge amounts. For millions, we’re talking skyscrapers. There would be fake office spaces, fake tenants, trumped up construction bills, etc.”

  “Interesting.” I watched her. “Then, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Where?”

  “I’ll pick you up from your place. Haven Street, right?”

  Fear hit her eyes when I said her address, but she kept her voice calm. “Yes. I live on Haven Street.”

  “I’ll see you again at eight in the morning.”

  “Okay.” She rose when I did. “And. . .my brother?”

  “He’s gotten himself into some trouble, but you can help. You’re very smart. There should be no problems.”

  She gripped the edge of her desk. For a second, I didn’t like that reaction, didn’t want her that scared of me. But that was only for a second and then she walked around her desk.

  “So. . .my brother is safe?”

  “He is.”

  He probably won’t be able to move his right shoulder anymore, but he can move everything else for now.

  “When will I get to see him?” she asked.

  “When you’ve showed me that I can trust you. For now, he stays with me. But don’t worry. He’s got a bed and my people will keep him safe. There’s no need for people to die from neglect. In fact, you should see this as a big opportunity for a new career. I’ve only known your name for an hour and had my men ask around. Many claim you’ve helped a lot of unsavory characters. Apparently, you’re the queen of. . .how do they say it. . .frenemies.”

  “Bad guys aren’t always bad people.”

  “Then, we’ll have a happy partnership.”

  She stirred but forced herself to smile. “I agree. I’m willing to do anything to keep my brother safe. Let me know, and I can figure it out. You’ll be happy.”

  My mind drifted to the other ways she could make me happy and then I pulled my imagination back. If someone killed my washer, then they were trying to stop my money in New York. Everyone knew, if you owned New York, you owned America. And I enjoyed my hold on this country. But, someone thought they could do a better job. It was time to focus on the war ahead. I figured it would be small and take no more than a week.

  What could this country do to me, that my own country hadn’t already done?

  I’d been born into death, so I welcomed it, whenever it rang.

  I walked off, paused, and then turned around. “You never told me why you painted the lions.”

  “Someone commissioned me to do it.”

  Coincidence or connected?

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It was an anonymous person which isn’t really a huge deal in the art world. I was asked to paint them three months ago, do a showing, and then deliver on a particular date. Which happens to be tomorrow.”

  “But, you don’t know who commissioned you?”

  “No.”

  I mentally filed it away. In life, things happened for a reason. Instinct told me to pay attention to everything, even the little things. Nothing ever was a true coincidence. One could always find a connection in the tiniest moments.

  “When you find out who commissioned the paintings, le
t me know.”

  She scrunched her face in confusion, but then shifted it back to neutral. “I will.”

  “And the painting with the lion and the mouse, I’m buying that one. You’ll have to explain that to your buyer. If he doesn’t like it, then I’ll explain it.”

  She widened her eyes and nodded.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “I hadn’t thought of a price for any of them, since the person had already paid.”

  “Then, I’ll come up with my own price and have my men pick it up after the showing.”

  “Sounds good.” She walked over to the door and opened it.

  I left and found the whole situation more pleasing than any other business dealing I could think of. While she must’ve been scared, she handled it well. I’d had men urinate right in front of me, so scared they couldn’t control their bladder. I had women try to run before I’d even presented my question. Other women came on to me sexually to get their way. And then there were the ones who tried to babble out of working with me, begging for their lives, pleading for their freedom.

  This wasn’t her. She was compliant and straightforward. It felt more like a business interview than anything else.

  There’s something more to her.

  When the office door closed, I gestured for one of my men. “Put ears and eyes on her.”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve already installed cameras inside her brownstone, but they haven’t finished yet.”

  “Good.” I headed out of the hallway and met with Sasha who stared at a family of lions tearing an antelope apart. Instead of red paint, the blood sparkled with crimson gems.

  “I love her work,” Sasha said.

  “She’s talented and beautiful. This will be fun.”

  Sasha eyed me. “How much fun are you planning to have, brother?”

  “Do you see the subject of her paintings?”

  “Yes.” He rolled his eyes. “The lions.”

  “It means something.”

  We walked off.

  “Fine.” Sasha waved me away. “It means something. Perhaps, it means good luck.”

  I glanced back at the painting I’d bought. “But, the lion is caught in the net.”

  “And the mouse helps get him out.”

  We stepped outside. The night air chilled my skin.

  “Then, she will be my mouse.” I headed to the limo.

  “No, she will be our washer. I hate when you do your sync thing. It always gets us into trouble.”

  “It’s synchronicity and I’ve showed you hundreds of times that it works. We wouldn’t be here, if not for meaningful coincidences. Carl Jung believed that—”

  “Carl Jung is dead, and you will be too if you don’t stop with your meaningful coincidences.”

  “There’s no such thing as a coincidence, my friend. It’s all connected.” I tapped the side of my head. “That’s what keeps us ahead of everyone else. I keep my eyes open.”

  “You keep your eyes open? That’s why?” Sasha laughed. “Maybe we’re also ahead of everyone else because you don’t mind peeling the skin off men one strip at a time, when they betray you.”

  “Loyalty keeps us strong.”

  “I agree, so leave your dead man and his meaningful coincidences alone, as well as this mouse.”

  I smiled. “Mysh. That’s what I will call her. My little mouse.”

  Sasha laughed again. “I think you’re just looking for an excuse to fuck her.”

  “I don’t need to create one. She’s beautiful and smart. That’s enough.”

  “Well, she’s not for fucking, but if she doesn’t clean this money, maybe you can fuck her right before I kill her.”

  I ignored him. Killing women was his thing, not mine. When he saw a beautiful lady, he thought of the ways he could make her scream. Whereas I just wanted to make her moan.

  “Do you think she can handle this?” Sasha asked.

  “The universe will decide. So far, the lion is trapped in rope and the mouse is getting him out. Is it a meaningful coincidence or is it my destiny?”

  “Destinies and meaningful coincidences.” Sasha pointed to a billboard. “Look there. That’s a lion with his cock cut off. There’s your sign. What does that say?”

  I looked at the billboard. It was empty. “You just make sure someone is watching her.”

  “Of course. For now, she’s the most important person in this shitty country. I sent Ivan in.”

  “Have Ivan send the footage of her place to my phone.”

  “I did.” He frowned. “I never forget how much you enjoy watching people. Where do we go next?”

  “The night is still early. I want to meet Penelope and find out more about this missing hooker.”

  Sasha’s frown deepened. “Hookers and brothels. Will the fun ever end?”

  “We’re in New York. This city never sleeps.”

  “And if we go to a brothel tonight, we won’t sleep either.”

  “Then, we should eat first. The Russian Tea Room?” I asked. “You always talk about it.”

  “Of course. You will like it. Good traditional cuisine set in luxury.”

  “We only live once.”

  “This is true.”

  The limo drove off, and I gazed at the beauty of this city. Skyscrapers glittered within the stars and moonlight. The streets hummed with cars honking and people cursing or chattering on their phones as they rushed off to this place or that. Oily smoke from taxis’ rusted exhausts mingled with the street foot vendors roasted scents.

  When I was a kid, I never thought I would be in a magical place like this.

  Life had been strange for me.

  I was born in 1991, months before the Soviet Union’s hammer and sickle flag lowered for the last time over the Kremlin, later replaced by the Russian tricolor on December 25th. Months before, Mikhail Gorbachev resigned as president of the Soviet Union, leaving Boris Yeltsin to lead the newly independent Russian state.

  During the Soviet Union’s communist rule, they deported entire criminal communities of various ethnicities out of their homelands. Many were my ancestors who were forced to live in the Southwest of the U.S.S.R.

  They thought it was a solution to crime, but the area quickly developed into powerful ghettos corroded with criminals. And among the poorest were my father’s clan—Siberians. Rough and Raw and damn near unstoppable.

  I was born there.

  Even after Russia was formed, and my father later died, leaving my mother to fend for herself, I remained there—hungry, deadly, and ready to rip the world alive. My uncles taught me that we were the honest criminals. The rest were power-hungry political and murderous bureaucrats that had their minions—cops and other devils in uniforms—do their work.

  My education didn’t come from schools. It came from the streets, and nothing as pretty as found in New York. My home ran with snow-covered muddy roads flanked by shacks. Many times, blood stained the snow, and most of the time the corpse wore a uniform.

  At eight, I learned how to stab a person properly from my mother. She’d hung dead animals from the ceiling and I stabbed them, learning the right organs to puncture first. Hearing the sound, the right cut would make against flesh.

  At ten, I’d already had a little gang—my young sister, Valentina and five cousins. They gave me my few happy memories of winter. We would stand around a trash can full of fire and sip vodka we’d stolen from our uncles. There, we boasted about all the money we would one day have.

  By our teens, we stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Anything taken or gained—no matter how big or small—was brought back to the neighborhood—generations of outcasted criminals living together. Any food and money went to the mothers. Weapons and drugs went to the men.

  Anybody on the outside was the enemy, and I hated them. And from that disgust, a rage of violence lived in my eyes.

  Sasha’s father came to our area when I turned fifteen. He fell in love with my mother. Still married, he moved us to Moscow. His wif
e died under mysterious reasons and my mother took her place.

  And that was where the beast inside of me really grew.

  On the day my mother died, diamonds covered her neck and fingers. Furs wrapped around her body.

  She smiled at me. “Kazimir, you must control the rage.”

  “I have, Mother.”

  “No.” She coughed. “I can still see it in your eyes.”

  “Then stay so you can help take it away.”

  Her face grew sad. “I can’t, Kazimir, but one day, someone will.”

  The limo continued through Manhattan and I thought back to Emily’s eyes. I couldn’t see through them. They were locked doors inside of her pupils, hiding big secrets within.

  What secrets do you have behind them, Emily? And why do I so badly want to know them?

  Chapter 4

  Maxwell

  Fuck. The Russians are already here. I thought I had more time.

  Benjamin Franklin said, “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

  I should’ve taken Franklin’s advice last night. Maybe the Russians wouldn’t have showed up at Emily’s art showing. Maybe all of the Tinder Killer stuff would’ve gone away.

  Darryl, you stupid bastard. How could you send them her way? And where the fuck is Kennedy?

  We’d all grown up together in the same shitty building—Darryl, Emily, Kennedy, and me. After the fire, everything changed. We all moved. Years later, Emily bought the burnt up building, got it repaired with dirty money, and renovated our old apartments. Emily didn’t show how broken she was, but when she bought the property, we knew she still struggled with the pain. And me being the physical embodiment of her guilt and battered conscience, I felt bad and moved in with her, hating every brick in place, every wall, every step, every door.

  Emily and I still resided there—she stayed in her parents’ old apartment and I live in my father’s old place.

  The other two thought we were crazy. Kennedy never came to visit. Darryl came, but didn’t stay for too long—always jittery and stirring, never sitting down. Sometimes he swore he heard ghosts whispering and would just leave.

  I didn’t mind the ghosts. Neither did Emily.